


Once a Figment

by gardnerhill



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Without a Clue (1988)
Genre: Community: watsons_woes, Gen, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 12:00:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1898217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I was once a figment of your imagination. But now Sherlock Holmes belongs to the whole world!”              </p>
            </blockquote>





	Once a Figment

**Author's Note:**

> For the 2014 July Watson’s Woes Prompt #4: **Poem prompt (Walt Whitman):**
> 
> Words! book-words! what are you?  
> Words no more, for hearken and see,  
> My song is there in the open air—and I must sing,  
> With the banner and pennant a-flapping.

“I noticed you’re doing a great deal more ad-libbing these days.” Watson did not look up from the pages he scribbled at his desk.

Kincaid bristled, setting down the telephone. “Is this to be another scolding session from the playwright?”

“Not at all, actually.” Watson glanced at his small notebook and returned to his longhand writing on the foolscap. “What’s surprising is that even when you come up with the words, they still sound like ones I wrote for you.”

“It’s called ‘staying in character.’ It’s a thing actors do,” Kincaid responded loftily before bringing the receiver back to his ear. “Hello, is this Mayhew’s Tobacconists?”

They had only just gained their understanding of their work as a team, and their friendship was still a painful new thing, so Watson did not begrudge his hired actor his momentary resentment.

Kincaid continued with his work on the telephone. “Yes. Do you have Prince Albert in the can?” He covered his mouth to hide a snicker and shot a wicked glance at his employer.

Watson rolled his eyes. His “Sherlock Holmes” – actor Reginald Kincaid, gambler, womaniser, drunkard, and purveyor of childish pranks – was as un-Sherlockian as it was possible to be and still remain a man.

But then Kincaid stiffened. Watson froze as well, just reacting to his partner’s reaction.

The voice that came out of Kincaid now was the deep wise tone of Sherlock Holmes, though terror still shone in his eyes. “Good evening, Your Royal Highness. No, please forgive me for the interruption of your ablutions. I only wished to recommend that you try this shop’s Virginia Shred – my study of tobacco ash has made me intimately familiar with nearly 200 varieties, and I am extremely partial to that blend; I believe you would be as well.” A pause; and a look of disbelief on Kincaid’s face – but the voice was still Holmes’ calm, sage tones. “Thank you, Your Highness, that is a very kind thing to say to a subject, but the pleasure of this conversation is all mine. Good day.” Kincaid hung the receiver and sagged, ashen.

Watson closed his eyes, feeling a little sick himself. “Let me guess. That _was_ Prince Albert.”

Reginald Kincaid’s broad Cockney responded. “And he was ‘honored’ to speak to the great Sherlock Holmes, instead of furious that he’d been called from the shop’s privy.” Kincaid straightened and met Watson’s eyes.

And both of them broke out laughing, and couldn’t stop for five minutes.

“Oh, Watson, that is the power of your writing,” Kincaid gasped. “With ink and paper, you’ve conjured up a person to whom queens and princes bow!”

I never wrote any words that powerful,” Watson heaved for breath himself; he could feel how red-faced he’d gotten from this juvenile mirth. “I wrote a – a skeleton for the man. You’ve clothed Sherlock Holmes in flesh and blood. I didn’t write a single word that came out of your mouth just now, but it was exactly the way Sherlock Holmes would have responded to speaking to the Prince Consort. You are the magician, Kincaid.”

Both took a few minutes to recover from their laughter and terror.

“Here. Your lines for Scotland Yard, about the Fothering case.” Watson handed over his foolscap.

“But you’ve only just started putting them down!” Kincaid, puzzled, took the notes. He scanned down the page in seconds, frowning. He flipped the single page over, flipped it back.

Watson waited.

And Reginald Kincaid’s ugly, friendly grin spread across his face as he looked up.

Watson met his grin with a broad smile of his own. “No need to memorise pages of my dialogue any more, you’ve got the character firmly in hand by now,” he said. “All the important names and clues are on that list. Just take that and make it something Sherlock Holmes would say to the police.”

Sherlock Holmes certainly did not tear up as quickly as Kincaid did at a gesture of Watson’s friendship and trust. It was part of precisely why Watson could trust Kincaid with this job of taking a few words and breathing life into a stuffy sleuth.

“On one condition,” Watson said, as sternly as he could manage.

Kincaid immediately went back into character, and solemnly intoned. “No more puerile telephone calls.”

“Brilliant deduction, Holmes,” said Watson.


End file.
